Chapter 103 — Guests
The village of Zef had that quality of a place that had been destroyed and still didn't quite know what it was now.
The houses carried that state of something that had existed and then ceased to exist, yet the bones remained—broken walls, collapsed beams, the ground bearing that texture of a place that once held life inside it and from which life had departed in a way that had not been chosen. The silence possessed that specific density of a place that had once been loud for all the wrong reasons and where the noise had left its mark on the air itself.
Garrett was leaning against one of the walls.
With that posture of someone who had chosen that spot because it gave him a view of everything around him—that the support was strategic before it was rest. His hands were in his pockets. His eyes moved across the surroundings with that quality of continuous assessment belonging to someone who never turned off his instincts once the immediate danger had passed, because those instincts had learned that immediate danger was not always the only kind of danger.
Cassius was sitting.
In the center of what had once been the main square, atop a stone that had belonged to something before becoming merely a stone. His head was tilted toward the sky with that quality of a person looking at something others couldn't see—or perhaps simply looking at nothing, and finding that nothing sufficient.
The mask covered his face. The die rested motionless between his fingers for the first time in longer than Garrett could remember.
Minutes passed.
Garrett counted them with that involuntary precision of someone whose training had transformed time into an automatic unit of measurement. Five. Ten. More. The sun moved with that indifference unique to something that had not just escaped Zordis by a margin far narrower than it should have been.
Nothing changed.
Cassius continued staring at the sky.
Garrett pushed himself off the wall.
With that walk of someone who had made a decision—that approaching was already part of what was going to happen regardless of whatever followed. He stopped a meter away. With that distance of someone who left enough space for the conversation not to become a confrontation, while still remaining one between equals.
"What's the plan?"
He spoke with that directness of someone who wasn't asking for the first time, but who this time wasn't going to accept a non-answer as an answer.
"We've been sitting here doing nothing for too long."
Cassius didn't take his eyes off the sky.
"Don't let anxiety win before the right moment."
The voice carried that quality of calm belonging to someone who genuinely wasn't being provocative—who said what he said because it was what he believed, and what he believed did not include urgency.
Something inside Garrett snapped with that precision of something reaching its limit—not anger, but enough.
"Put the cards on the table."
Cassius didn't respond. Garrett continued.
"I agreed to ally with you for my own goals. You know everything about me—where I come from, what I owe, what I want, what I lost. Every piece of who I am was placed on the table a long time ago."
He paused. Let the words occupy space.
"I'm just following you. I don't know who you really are. I don't know what your grand objective is behind everything you've done."
His eyes carried that quality of someone saying something he wasn't going to take back.
"I refuse to follow someone I don't know."
The silence that followed possessed that quality of silence belonging to someone who had heard and was choosing how to answer.
"The Central Continent is beautiful, don't you think?"
Garrett remained still for a second.
With that expression of someone who had received an answer perpendicular to the question and was recalibrating—that it wasn't evasive, merely the beginning of something whose shape was not yet visible.
"Beautiful isn't the word I'd use." His voice carried that dryness of someone deciding to answer anyway. "Better than most places, yes. There's more freedom here than in most places I know."
Cassius let a beat pass.
"Have you ever thought that one day the Central Continent could become complete chaos and the Astral Continent the most organized place in the world?"
Garrett frowned with that expression of someone evaluating a question for traps and finding none, though the absence of a trap did not make the question any less strange.
"Never." With that conviction of someone who knew enough history to possess a formed opinion. "The history of the two continents is completely different. The Central Continent has always been about freedom—even with the growing imbalance of recent years. The Astral Continent, because of its former God, has always been a place of violence. That doesn't change."
Cassius became still with that immobility of someone who had listened and recorded every word.
"I'd love to see everything become the opposite."
He spoke with that quality of voice belonging to someone sharing a genuine preference—with that lightness of someone who did not feel the true weight of what he was saying.
"A beautiful chaos."
Garrett stood motionless.
With that stillness of someone who had heard a sentence whose implications arrived in layers rather than all at once. The Central Continent in chaos. The Astral Continent organized. Not as an accidental consequence.
As a deliberate goal.
"What do you mean by that?"
It wasn't a question of clarification. It was the question of someone who had understood and needed confirmation that he had understood correctly—that his mind was resisting the conclusion and that resistance was not enough to stop it from arriving anyway.
Cassius lowered his gaze from the sky for the first time.
He rose with that fluidity of movement belonging to someone whose body obeyed without consultation—that the transition from sitting to standing contained no visible stages. He walked toward Garrett with that cadence of someone not advancing to intimidate, merely reducing distance for practical reasons.
He stopped in front of him.
"Stay calm." The voice was low, carrying that quality of someone genuinely reassuring rather than manipulating. "You're my partner now. You'll get to know me little by little."
The eyes behind the mask possessed that quality of someone telling the truth—that there was more, that there would be time for that more, and that haste was the only mistake Garrett could make now.
"Don't be in a rush."
Garrett looked at him.
With that expression of someone who had received an incomplete answer and knew that the incomplete answer was the complete answer available for now. Pressing further wouldn't produce anything else.
He slipped his hands into his pockets.
Raised his eyes toward the sky with that posture of someone who had accepted waiting as an active state.
"When do the guests arrive?"
Cassius looked at him with an expression that might have been satisfaction, though the mask made it difficult to tell.
"Soon."
---
Inside the palace hall of Zordis, the guard had come running in.
With that quality of movement belonging to someone carrying good news significant enough to justify the sprint—that his legs had decided before any other part of him.
"They managed to capture the Fear Mage!"
The voice carried that quality of an announcement from someone who knew it would change the atmosphere of the room—and was right.
It did.
The hall exploded with that kind of explosion that wasn't destruction but relief compressed for so long that it had developed pressure of its own. Tears on faces that hadn't cried during battle because crying during battle had never been an available option. Embraces carrying the strength of people who only realized how much tension they'd been holding once the danger had passed.
"Lord Zenk is with him right now. Trying to find out who's behind all of this."
The nobles composed themselves again with the speed of people whose instinct for appearances moved faster than their ability to process genuine emotion.
"It was the least that had to be done." One noble's voice carried that quality of someone assigning himself credit for competence he had not displayed. "Protecting our precious lives."
The King of Thornvale turned toward him with that expression of someone who had heard enough and wasn't going to let it pass.
"Show a little humility."
The noble opened his mouth. Closed it. Chose not to continue.
At the back of the hall, separated from the others by that distance belonging to someone who never quite belonged to the environment—
Anseff stood against the wall.
Alone.
Smiling.
Not the smile of relief spreading through the room. Not the smile of satisfaction from someone witnessing something good. A different smile—wide, without visible reason, with the question mark etched into his forehead standing in contrast to the expression of someone who knew exactly what was coming next and drew his amusement from that knowledge.
The relief in the room began to coagulate.
With that slow progression of a place that had sensed something but had not yet fully understood what. Eyes found Anseff and lingered a second too long before looking away. The smile carried that quality of something that didn't belong anywhere around it and therefore made everything around it feel unstable—that it was disturbing precisely because there was no visible reason for it.
One guard noticed.
With that professional awareness belonging to someone whose job was to notice exactly this kind of thing.
"Anseff." His hand moved to his sword with that automaticity of training. "What's your problem?"
Anseff raised his head.
With that slowness belonging to someone fully aware of every movement—that it wasn't a natural gesture but a deliberate choice executed with the precision of someone who had rehearsed this, not with his body, but with his mind.
"It's not over yet."
He spoke with that quality of voice belonging to someone who wasn't threatening.
Merely informing.
The question mark on his forehead contrasted against the absolute certainty in his voice.
His arm moved before anyone in the room had time to process that it was moving.
The playing card left his fingers with that projectile speed something that small should not have possessed—crossing the distance between them with the precision of someone who had performed that motion enough times for accuracy to become memory rather than concentration.
It pierced the guard's forehead.
The sound was dry, carrying that quality of impact that left no echo—it happened and remained suspended in the air for half a second before the body realized it had to fall. The guard collapsed with that absence of drama belonging to something that had simply lost whatever had kept it standing. Blood trickled down his face with a slowness that possessed a quality of its own.
The hall fell silent.
Anseff kept smiling.
The remaining four guards reacted with that synchronization born from training—that training said move, and the body moved without consultation. They advanced in formation with that organization belonging to people who had done this before and knew how it was supposed to work.
The first reached him first.
Anseff jumped with that lightness of someone served differently by gravity—not that he ignored gravity, but that he used it with an efficiency that made the movement disturbing precisely because it was too clean for the situation. He landed on the guard's shoulders before the guard had fully processed what was happening.
Hands on the head.
The sound was that of something that should not have turned in that direction.
The body remained standing for a second—with that quality of a system that had not yet received the information that it had ended. Then it fell.
Two guards attacked simultaneously from the right.
Anseff didn't look. He drew two cards with that precision of someone who knew exactly where his hands would arrive without needing visual confirmation. The cards flew spinning with that trajectory of carefully calculated blades—the rotation chosen so the angle of impact would be horizontal at exactly the correct height.
Two sounds.
Two bodies.
The fourth guard had raised his sword with that defensive instinct of someone who had evaluated the situation and concluded blocking was the available option. The edge of the card met the sword.
Cut through the metal.
With that continuity of something that had encountered insufficient resistance—the blade broke apart and the half carrying the card continued toward the guard's neck. He collapsed in two stages with that quality of a body receiving information sequentially instead of all at once.
The fifth guard stood alone.
With that stillness of someone whose mind had calculated the probabilities and found them unfavorable. The sword remained in his hands, but remaining in his hands was no longer enough to change the outcome.
His eyes swept across the hall with that speed of someone searching for Anseff where Anseff was supposed to be.
A hand pierced through his chest from the front.
With that quality of penetration belonging to something entering with the precision of a chosen destination—not random violence, but exact placement. The guard looked at the hand emerging from his chest with that expression of someone seeing something for which his mind possessed no category.
Anseff stood behind him.
Still smiling.
He twisted his hand inside the body with that deliberateness of someone checking and finding the result satisfactory. Then he pushed.
The guard fell.
A noble vomited instantly.
A prodigy child sat against the wall with knees drawn to their chest and eyes fixed on the floor before them. The Queen of Adventus had instinctively positioned herself in front of the nearest prodigies, protecting them with that automaticity belonging to someone for whom protection came before decision.
Anseff looked at the nobles.
With that expression of someone genuinely entertained—that the entertainment was not performative cruelty but sincere observation of something he found interesting.
"You people think you're important."
He spoke with that quality of observation belonging to someone sharing a conclusion reached alone, without judgment, merely as fact.
"But you're only useful for being kidnapped."
The smile widened.
One noble dropped to his knees.
Not by choice—his system simply gave way. Sweat appeared with that immediacy of a body receiving a danger signal and responding with every mechanism available at once. Tears came with that involuntary quality belonging to someone not trying to communicate anything. The stain spread across his clothes with that quality of something that happened before the conscious mind had any opportunity to intervene.
Anseff turned toward him.
With that attention belonging to someone who had found something interesting—genuinely, without mockery, merely the curiosity of someone observing a response to a stimulus and finding the response exactly what he expected.
The question mark on his forehead.
The smile.
He remained like that for a moment—simply looking at the noble on the floor, allowing the silence to do work that words didn't need to do.
Then he raised a hand.
The portal opened with that quality of something replacing air with something else—purple, dense, carrying that presence of an opening leading somewhere that wasn't here. In the center of the hall. Without warning. Without visible preparation. Simply present where it had not existed a second earlier.
He clapped.
With that quality of a gesture from someone sending a simple signal—that the signal was enough and nothing more was required.
The bodies began to rise.
With that quality of movement belonging to people removed from gravity's equation without consultation—that their feet left the ground without ever asking to. Kings with crowns still on their heads. Queens still dressed in festival attire. The prodigies—each child wearing that expression of someone who understood something was terribly wrong but had not yet found anything useful to do with that understanding.
Any.
Her silver bracelet caught the light of the portal as she rose, wearing that expression of someone struggling against something that offered no physical point to resist.
One by one.
With that orderliness belonging to something planned far enough in advance that the sequence was deliberate rather than random.
They entered the portal.
And disappeared.
The nobles who remained—the envoys from Killvis, those from Maldrath—stood wearing that expression of people who had witnessed something their minds were still attempting to classify. The ones left untouched. The ones Anseff had deliberately spared because he knew exactly who was useful for what.
The hall entered that state that comes after violence—the objects displaced, the air carrying that particular smell, the silence possessing that quality unique to places that had contained too much noise and where absence was now all that remained.
---
In the village of Zef, the portal opened without warning.
Purple. The color of something that did not belong to the normal spectrum of light. It appeared in the center of the village, only a few meters from where Cassius stood, opening with that suddenness of something that required no visible preparation.
And they began to emerge.
Floating with that quality of involuntary movement—kings with crowns still on their heads, queens in ceremonial attire, prodigies wearing that expression of children who understood something was terribly wrong but had not yet figured out what to do about it.
Garrett froze.
With that stillness of someone whose mind had received information too large for immediate processing. The King of Thornvale. The Queen of Azumi. The King of Adventus carrying that warrior's posture that never completely disappeared even while immobilized. The prodigies, one by one. Any with the silver bracelet around her wrist and that expression of someone trying to maintain composure with whatever she had left available.
Sixteen people.
The rulers of the Central Continent stood in the center of a ruined village, floating, conscious of everything, incapable of doing anything about it.
Garrett looked from Any to Cassius.
Cassius had returned his gaze to the sky.
With that naturalness belonging to someone for whom the arrival of sixteen hostages held the same significance as rainfall—that it was what he had expected, what had happened, and therefore required no adjustment in posture.
"I want you to babysit our guests."
He spoke without taking his eyes off the sky.
With that quality of a request from someone who already knew it would be fulfilled.
Garrett stared at the hostages floating before him—motionless, conscious, wearing that expression of people who could see everything and do nothing about what they saw.
We kidnapped the rulers of the Central Continent.
The thought arrived with that clarity of something his mind had finally processed completely.
This is war.
He looked at Cassius.
Cassius still stared at the sky.
Beautiful chaos.
---
Inside the palace hall, Anseff had walked to the door.
With that walk of someone who had finished what he came to do and was therefore leaving—without urgency, because urgency had belonged to earlier, and now there was only movement with a destination.
He stopped before the closed door.
He stood with his back to the hall.
With his back to the hall.
To the nobles pressed against the walls with that posture of people whose systems had decided that remaining exactly where they were was the only strategy available. To the guards' corpses scattered across the floor with that arrangement belonging to something that had happened quickly. To the blood spread across the stone with that extent of something that had never been planned and yet was the natural result.
He raised his hands with that quality of a gesture belonging to someone who was enjoying himself—not because of cruelty, but because something had gone exactly as it was supposed to, and that deserved a moment.
The question mark on his forehead.
The smile.
Nobody in the hall said anything.
The door opened.
Kuto entered first with that walk of someone stepping into unknown territory with a fighter's awareness—that his eyes swept across the room before any other part of his body had fully crossed the threshold.
Raimi behind him. Foldris. Soldiers.
What they saw arrived in layers with that speed of a mind that processes the most urgent things first.
Five corpses.
With that arrangement belonging to something that had happened quickly—two heads facing directions they should not have been facing, one body with a hole through its chest, blood spread across enough space to indicate speed and numbers rather than duration.
Nobles pressed against the walls with that posture of people for whom the floor felt insufficient and standing upright was the absolute limit of what they could manage.
A prodigy child in the corner with their knees drawn to their chest and eyes fixed on a point on the floor in front of them.
A noble on his knees, his clothes soaked and his face carrying that texture of someone who had gone through something his mind had not yet finished processing.
And Anseff.
Standing with his back to the door.
His hands raised.
Wearing the smile that his posture communicated even without his face being visible.
No kings.
No queens.
No prodigies.
Kuto stopped in the center of the entrance.
With that stillness of someone whose mind was taking inventory in real time—that the absences were the most important information, that what wasn't there was more urgent than what was.
A hall that should have contained sixteen people between kings, queens, and prodigies.
Instead, it contained nobles pressed against the walls, corpses on the floor, and a man standing with his back turned, hands raised in the air, smiling at a closed door.
Anseff turned around.
With that slowness of someone who had been waiting for this moment with that specific quality of waiting—that it wasn't anxiety, but anticipation for something that was going to happen exactly as expected.
The question mark on his forehead.
The smile, wide in a way that did not belong among the corpses surrounding him, nor among the nobles against the walls, nor within the absence of everyone who should have been present.
He looked directly at Kuto.
With that attention of someone who had evaluated and found exactly what he had calculated he would find—not surprise.
Recognition.
He said nothing.
He merely smiled with that quality of someone for whom words were unnecessary because the scene already said everything there was to say.
Because Kuto would understand.
Because understanding was enough for now.
Kuto wore that expression of someone who understood enough to know that enough was not everything—that pieces were missing, that the missing pieces were the ones that mattered most, and that Anseff knew exactly what those pieces were and had no intention of sharing them at this moment.
Raimi stopped beside him.
Her hand instinctively moved to his arm with that quality of contact belonging to someone who needed to confirm someone's presence before anything else.
The hall fell silent.
With Anseff smiling.
With the rulers of the Central Continent somewhere that was not here.